All The Time in the World
by Lostinafairytale.eb
Summary: "Don't stop. Don't go." The pleas belong to both. Neither wants it to end. Both crave the other's touch, the other's voice, the other's intensity. Sum: The universe plots to keep two soulmates separated. Their love began before either understood what it really was, fed by passion, lust, need, & recognition that their hearts would be forever intertwined. Rated M: fluff/future lemons
1. Chapter 1: The Way It Ends

**This is my first. Please review. The implied characters belong to Cassandre Clare. Everything else is mine. Please enjoy.**

A glance. A sigh. Soft whispers. Fingers tenderly caressing. Warm, moist breath cascading over expectant flesh.

"Don't stop. Don't go." In hushed tones. The pleas belong to both. Neither wants it to end. Both crave the other's touch, the other's voice, the other's intensity.

"We can't do this. It will only make it harder."

"I know, but I can't stop."

"Me either."

Another sigh. This one more resigned, less hopeful. One pulls away, but both are left breathless, yearning. The unplaced touches ghosting in want. She smooths her blouse the soft silk not the skin she desires. He adjusts his tie, runs his fingers through his hair—not the hair he wishes to run through his fingers or gently, but urgently pull.

They stare at the door leading away from them. It's a door real in that it leads to another place, but walking through it feels like an abomination, a betrayal to the other. Neither wants to be the first, to initiate their indefinite separation.

"When?" Unspoken, but heard like a shout echoing… "When? When? When?"

Neither answer knowing that there is no reply that will satiate. The fear is palpable like heart beat; it reverberates through her chest as well as his. He reaches for the doorknob, the end.

"Wait!" The word passes from her lips, a whispered heart wrenching sob that he feels deep within. It's a weight that anchors his hand back to his side. His eyes meet hers—gold gripping green securely, unable, unwilling to release the other. He braces himself for the onslaught of emotion that inevitably washes over him whenever he looks into her eyes. She feels it too, reluctant to let him experience anything alone. Fingers reach out aching for the other.

"Don't!" What? Feel? Cry? Despair? Ache? Want? Stop? The thoughts invade the confined space pushing the pair closer for one final embrace, one last lingering kiss, offering two desperate prayers for this not to be the way it ends. Eyes close, tears stream down and combine as cheeks press together, and lips devour frantically.

A shuttering breath releases separating the pair. Golden eyes open searching for green knowing that the search is in vain. He reaches for the doorknob again. There are no whispers to stop him, no pleas to delay his hand. Isolation drapes over his shoulders a heavy cape that quashes hope and memory. Trembling hands grip the door pulling it open; the movement carries the last remaining scents of her away from him.

Black stretches forward to grasp him. It surrounds him, covers everything within reach and beyond. His hand grips the curved smooth handle of his cane. He shuffles quietly into the room drenched in sadness. Expectant eyes lock onto him trying to support him as he make his way to his seat.

There are no arms surrounding him providing encouragement or consolation. Only one touch could possibly dissolve the impassible sorrow that has settled deep within his soul. Slowly, he allows one last sigh to escape. Lined, spotted with age hands grip the gleaming wood of the white satin-lined box. His eyes fight the image before him—fiery, red hair now mostly grey splayed across the pillow, a forced look of peace on her wrinkled face.

Time won't heal the anguish squashing his heart. There isn't enough of it left for that. He turns to face the sea of black once more; the visible, drawn faces cannot provide comfort. A yearning rips through him; he aches with the realization that it will never again be fulfilled. As he takes his seat the finality erodes his spirit-the gold of his eyes dims.

She is gone.


	2. Chapter 2: The In-between

**I'm trying to keep the author's notes to a minimum, but...**

**First: I wanted to thank the followers, the favoriters and the reviewers. I thrive on feedback and nothing beats a review telling me how the reader feels about this story. Thank you!**

**Second: I know that the chapters are short, but the length is a necessary part of establishing time.**

**Third: I'm sorry that I'm posting chapters out of order (I posted 3 (called it two) and then posted 2). I felt like there needed to be an event in between "The Way It Ends" and "The Way It Begins", hence the title of this chapter.**

**I hope you love it and that you will continue to favorite, follow and review! **

He arrives at the place they shared—home—filled will reminders of her…her scent, her laugh, her calmly sweet voice, her dreams, her moans. The walls shout the memories of the minutes spent together...the hours lingering over joined thoughts...the days basking in each other's pleasured gasps, quiet touches that reveal the depth of feelings...the months of laughter gripping their whole beings...the years of joy, endless nights, family, hope, denial, pain, desperation and grief.

At the door, he casts off the last of the, "I'm so sorry", the "She's no longer suffering", the "Remember the wonderful life you shared." She would understand his desire to be alone. Only she would know that all he needs is the persistent cold that her passing rakes over him. He can't feel anything, but that cold; it's the only thing his body, his mind, his heart will allow because she is gone.

She was the warmth. She was the laughter. She was the passion, the tenderness, the determination, the giver, the heart-his heart, his soul, his humanity. He doesn't know what he is without her. It didn't occur to him that he would ever exist, have to survive without her.

He realizes that he is still standing just inside the door. An obstruction, visible only to his heart, impedes his movement forward-or backward; there is only right now and right now is empty-barren. If he moves, it is a forced acceptance of the truth, a mutinous lie that is told with disgusting clarity. She is gone.

How will he go on? Nausea grips his once stalwart being; he's never been weak, never experienced the disloyal emotions that are now threatening to overwhelm his last vestige of calm. He tries to force his body to accept the deep, soothing breath that will hold the despair, the crushing blanket of feeling at bay. It is all in vain.

He crumples to his knees, face in hands, alone. Thoughts of an eternity without her press down on him, a heavy weight that he cannot bear. He works to conjure a memory of her-any memory that might pacify the rolling grief that invades his body seeping deep into his bones. Desperate for control, he bullies his legs into carrying his wracked shell to her favorite chair, the one that has inhaled her scent for countless years. Lowering himself deliberately, he breathes in the comfort of her imagined warmth that this chair must hold and succumbs to the waves of loss that have been fighting to conquer any strength that might remain. Tears crumble his resolve and the memories that have been hovering, awaiting an invitation, now drift down onto his shoulders enveloping him in a temporary cloak of relief. He doesn't fight their coming; he surrenders to the motion of them as they lull him into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3: The Way It Begins

**Thank you for taking the time to read. I love writing this story and I hope that if you love it too, you'll review, favorite and follow.**

He knows he shouldn't; he does know right from wrong, but his fingers itch to touch them—red, woven with gold that only he can see because he's right there. Slowly reaching out, torturously, trying to not disturb the air as he moves, a little voice inside calls out, "No". Ignoring it is easy like blinking. The desk that separates the space they share inhibits his stretch. He huffs out the softest breath, closes his eyes, inching his fingers, anticipating the feel, the softness. Glancing left and then right, the others pay him no notice. They trespass only briefly in his thoughts, and then his hand wraps around the closest. He holds his body so still and he feels himself pulling his hand down the smooth strands.

Her shrill scream shatters the solitude. He didn't mean to startle her. He only wanted to know, not with his eyes, but with his hands, his inquisitive six-year-old hands. Furious green meets penitent gold blazing with repentance. She's unfazed; her glare unrelenting and her screams pierce the still, noiseless room!

"Stop! Let go!" Her cries have broken into the classes' sacred writing time shattering the paper and pencil silence. Eyes fly up all around them. The new knowledge of her shrieks, her velvety tresses, the penetrating, fierce green of her eyes captivates him. He fights letting go; he doesn't want to miss anything.

Attraction, unrecognizable to his young heart, holds his grip steady, locked. He can't release her, although her voice is now not the only chant placing demands. Little voices, only small in their loudness, are overpowered by the teacher's harsh commands.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles too softly for ears to hear over the din. "I'm sorry. I only wanted to see what red feels like." With a gentle sadness his hand falls away. Her green has a hold over his gold, tears glistening in both—hers in anger and his in the recognition that red feels soft, sleek, wonderful.

"We keep our hands to ourselves." The teacher's reprimand should inspire dropped eyes and quiet, but instead sparks another emotion, defiance.

"I didn't want to hurt her," he throws back at the person he knows deserves his respect. His breath stutters caught in a thought about what he really wanted. "I wanted to…." Shame threatens to overtake his cheeks staining them with pink. The reason is stuck in his throat interrupted by a small, breathy whisper.

"It didn't hurt." Nothing else. No sob; no whine—just flat, sweetness excusing his guilt. Her eyes avoid witnessing his almost shame. She too wonders what it might be like to twist gold around her own fingers; if his curls feel like her doll's hair, silken shininess. Eyes camouflaged by long, full brownish-red lashes dart up and freeze his brilliant gold that stare pointedly at her.

Only moments are allowed to be stolen, and then the teacher calls the class to order. Green lingers and then disappears carried away from him as she turns back around in her seat. His hand holds the ghost of the memory of red, woven with gold that only he can see because he's right there.


	4. Chapter 4: Remembering

**Thank you so much to the readers, reviewers, favoriters and followers. It makes me smile that there are people out there enjoying this story. Please leave feedback: questions, comments, clarifications even critiques are like water to me. Thanks for reading!**

At recess she watches him sprint with his friends always the front-runner a lion among jackals. His flowing mane, golden curls moving turbulently with his speed, glows like a halo in the sunlight. No one can compare to his beauty, her 10-year-old eyes observe. She's vaguely unaware of the hold he has on her senses; her green eyes thirst for a closer glimpse of him; the low rumble of his laughter eludes her briefly as his race carries him away from her reach. She strains to glean any conversation that might uncover clues to help her understand the affect he has, leans forward and almost tumbles into the oncoming horde. Explanations for her curiosity (Is it only curiosity?) escape her. Unknowingly—she is only 10—he has captured something in her that she won't realize is his for the taking for a few more years.

The racers make a sharp turn and the herd heads toward her; he's leading the pack, of course. Her red tresses drift lazily back and forth as she swings surrounded by giggling voices. Blond, brown and black locks wafting to and fro, the girls pump higher and higher, gloriously innocent of the power he has over their friend. Her red stands out, makes her unique in a sea of sameness. Momentarily, his gold glance locks on her as his strong legs carry him beyond her again. She marvels at the way he is able to manipulate his body; he's a lithe cheetah stalking unsuspecting prey—powerful bursts of speed propel him forward commanding that he be first, that he dominate.

A shiver trembles up her back preceding the bell interrupting her observations; she has been too caught up in her revelry to notice that for one brief minute her thoughts: sharp, connected, unentangled were of him only. But now, they are a focused tumble laboring to hide any trace that he had trespassed in her mind. She is not ready to admit him voluntarily into her consciousness—he is a boy after all—a deliciously handsome boy, but a boy nonetheless. If her friends suspected that she was even slightly interested in him they would tease… "Hmm and hmm hmm…. sittin in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g!" Liking boys is a hovering idea, one that 5th grade girls titter about, but never entertain beyond blushing at his name. Discovery would make her secret apparent, and so she waits for any sign of her feelings to disappear—and she steals one more moment to stare.

His disappointment at the end of his fun is unmistakable and he grumbles, his husky voice deeper than his friends startles her memory. She knows that grumble much like she knows the best route home. It tickles her ear beckoning her to remember that that voice that belongs to someone…special? No, that's not it exactly. It's more. Her 10-year-old self struggles to place him. But she can't; time is up for recalling at least for now. She watches him as he heads into the classroom, his golden curls no longer full with the enthusiasm of speed; they are deflated by rules that he didn't make. He slows to breathe in one last sharp breath of sunshine and notices her still sitting on the swings. She sees that question in his eyes; the one that might answer hers, but the tardy bell invades their almost unspoken dialogue. Today is not the day for remembering, but she hopes that it will be soon.


	5. Chapter 5: The Memory Loosened

**Author's Note: Thanks loads to those who have taken the time to let me know how they feel about "All the Time..." I really am inspired by your reviews and I get so excited when my phone buzzes and I have a new review, or follower, or favorite! This chapter is a bit longer than the others. I actually took all day to write it, but my focus was pulled in a million different directions. Two children under 8, the older one having a playdate, are crazy demanding. But enough about that. **

** I asked my husband to read when I was done writing to make sure that all of the "breaks" I took didn't interfere with the story. When finished, I asked what he thought and he replied, "Never has so little been said in so many words! It was such an assault of imagery that I had to read it twice!"**

** Is he right? Do you agree? Is what he said a bad thing? Please let me know what you think? And thank you again for reading!**

The autumn wind whistles through the space between the outside classroom door and the jamb; the opposing teams hopes in vain that it might distract him. "Marco Polo was responsible for recording trade routes through Asia." He smiles his husky response confidently as the teacher's signaled nod affirms he is correct. For him, fifth grade social studies is a breeze. His answer earns her team a point, but the excitement of the competition dulls in the sharp awareness that grips her. His answer, the timbre of his preteen voice, is the key that loosens the memory from its walled-off prison deep within her mind. Her loud gasp resounds through the classroom, faces turn and glare, eyebrows raise in question, and her green eyes retreat into blankness. A coldness slides over her body as she fights against the onslaught of images that assault her mind: the last day of first grade playing in the park; the metal slide flaming hot on her bare legs; gold eyes waiting at the end to catch her; giggles overflowing with the tickling of his fingers; the spicy scent of his golden curls close; a long shadow momentarily blocking out the sun; a fleeting smile of recognition; rough hands forcing her away from his laughter; a horrified gasp escaping her lips, powerful crushing arms enveloping her roughly ripping her away from him.

Her gasp triggers something in him too; he's out of his seat and by her side even before his brain registers the movement. A memory, torn from his subconscious, dredged unwillingly from a place locked years before; he knows that gasp—a messenger of fear who haunted his hidden dreams after she was stolen from his embrace….

He waits. She depends upon his face to be brave; the slide is much higher than she's used to and his calm draws her fear away. He waits, but a smile creeps into his gold eyes as he plots against her. She rockets to the bottom, barreling into his outstretched arms. His fingers attack her belly encouraging her contagious giggles; his laugh bursts into the surrounding air. Summer signals an end to first grade, but it also brings a welcome friendship. With solid certainty he expects her to be on his side forever. He chases her knowing he'll catch her—she hopes to be caught. Fingertips stretch to restrain her to him and once again her giggles tickle his ears; her scent, citrusy and apple overwhelms and he pulls her even closer. Laughter threatening to explode—a confetti of happiness—is suddenly eclipsed by an elongated, strange shadow. Confusion grips him, but her green exudes a calm familiarity. The shadow's downturned smile furthers his discomfort, flashes of something: is it caution? danger? alarm his senses. Hands like clawless talons reach for her, grabbing at her arms, dragging her from his cement clutches that are no match for the shadow's strength. She gasps in terror as his warmth is breached and her body is torn from his. Green screams out to gold, but he is six-years-old and his voice although deeper and huskier than most doesn't demand the "Stop! Stop!" that he hopes thunders from his lips. Failure folds in on him as she disappears from his sight. Her mother rushes over and shakes him; his mom draws him into her arms a soft hush ghosts from her lips, but it's powerless to provide any comfort.

Uniforms and sirens, black suits and badges, things that would at once command his attention don't register. Questions rush at him, drown him. The answers are spoken in his head, but a cloud of shock prevents his lips from moving. Her mom is crying; broken sobbing tears running over her cheeks and into his heart. Every so often he hears his mother's warm, "Hush, hush", but the words cool before they ever reached his ears. Firm hands strangle his arms—his father's face tries to snap him to the present. Stuck in-between disbelief and trembling disappointment in his abilities, he is unreachable. Those same firm hands gather him into a protective embrace as a whisper brushes his ear, "Tell them." Three words escape him to crush the silence, "She knew him." Something he hoped would provide relief spurs action.

Her mother immediately crumples to the ground forced realization providing the next clue, "Her father threatened to take her away." The ground shakes with activity, footfalls and crackling radios, and he hears, "Hush, hush, hush". Only now does it permeate, to soften the emotions enough so that his own tears begin to fall.

He hiccups a question, "Will they find her?" The movement within his bubble slows; his parents hesitate with the truth.

"I hope so, Sweetie." His mother's forced encouragement hangs in the air as they walk toward home.

As time attempts to separate him from what happened, he is served a constant reminder: nightmare-ish shadows visit him, uninvited by the memory of her terrified gasp, seeking to crack his resolve to be strong. Worry provokes an unspoken vow to protect him and he is told very little about the search to find her. His heart provides armor to shelter him and he slowly locks away the memory of her in his past.

The whistling wind through the classroom door has reached a soft roar. Kneeling by her side once again his eyes search, but her green remains unfocused. Her breath comes fast and barely seems to fill her lungs before she exhales forcefully. He hushes her because it is the only thing his 10-year-old heart knows to do to comfort. "Hush. Hush." He doesn't touch her afraid that contact will fully awaken what he hoped would be forever silent, even though his fingers long to see if red still feels the same. "Hush, hush." His gold stare tries to penetrate her frozen expression; he hesitantly waits for her to discover him, to recall the time before when he would chase after, her screams of delight tingling in his ears. "Hush, hush." She doesn't respond and he feels desperation slithering; he tries another tactic.

"Do you remember when we were in first grade and I pulled your hair? You should have screamed at me, punched me in the nose, but instead you said that it didn't hurt." Her lids slowly close, her breathing still shallow, quick, and he waits much like he did at the bottom of the slide years ago.

"Do you remember I would chase you and you would scream and when I would catch you I'd tickle you until you were breathless?" Her eyes are still closed. He waits knowing she hears him. He waits knowing that she will find her bravery in his voice. A change in her breathing captures his attention. He waits still and hopeful. When her eyes finally reopen, he is greeted by green sparkling with recognition and he feels his sense of calm drawing her fears away.


	6. Chapter 6: Not Too Far From Heaven

**Hi all! Thanks again Reviews, Favoriters and Followers. Please don't hesitate to comment, ask questions, or offer critiques. I love receiving your feedback-it helps me to know if I'm on the right track or if I should just give up! This chapter is more upbeat and even has a bit of fluff! I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: The implied characters belong to Cassandra Clare everything else is all mine.**

She's surprised that the lie is so easily believed. Had her mother known that the party would be unsupervised, she would never have agreed to allow her to go. Even still, she pulls out her secret weapon to ensure that her old-fashioned mother feels comfortable with her decision to trust her 14 year-old daughter at boy and girl party: _him_.

He's 14, too, but her mother sees a maturity in him that she denies her own daughter possesses. Whenever they are together, which is always since their remembered friendship surfaced in fifth grade, he is uncharacteristically (for a preteen) aware of their surroundings. His golden eyes warily scan each passerby's face; his towering posture shouts protectively, warning off any potential danger. He is her guardian angel by choice, by necessity because he can never allow what happened that day, eight years ago, to be forgotten or the lapse to occur again. His constant reminder is her presence.

Her mother counts on his memories of the day her daughter was stolen, his loathing sense of failure to keep her safe: he was only six, but he makes no allowances for that when he recalls that day. He's haunted by his inaction, his inability to call attention as her father wrenched her from his solid embrace. Later, the voices pleading for him to break his shocked silence, hoping that his knowledge would lead them to her before any harm comes, have left an indelible mark on him. Their understanding, compassionate words washed over him, dissolving him of any blame; he was, after all, only six. But, forgiveness was something he never granted himself. He wears the burden even now—a weight pressing down the lightness that would normally follow a loved, adored, well cared for little boy—seven years later. It is this burden that her mother relies on, the responsibility she assigns him when she allows her daughter to go places with him.

His face is met at the door by hers and immediately he inhales deeply, a sense of relief releasing the tension that consumes him when they are parted. She smiles a smile she hides from others, one that only he deserves. She is glowing. Her gorgeous red waves cascade over her shoulders; her green locks onto his gold and communicates a happy sense of belonging that their intertwined souls recognize wholly subconsciously.

"Mom… He's here. I'm going now." She throws her goodbye haphazardly over her shoulder and grabs his hand. They shutter at the electricity that flows through the connection and skip down the porch steps to his mother's awaiting car. When they are together her lightness cannot be contained; he delights in her, but is always tensely aware of the heaviness of the past. She would give anything to free him of the guilt; she hopes that with time she will discover the absolution he deserves.

The ride in the confined space is too short for both of them; the enforced closeness demanded by the small backseat of the car provides a moment for them to breathe in the safety of each other and he almost relaxes. As she exits, he stands alert reaching for her and once again they tremble briefly at the linking of their hands. They walk silently up to the door, their footsteps falling in time to the music rushing from the already in progress party. As they enter, she writes her name next to a number and picks up flashing necklaces. He tenses involuntarily as his eyes settle on the black-lit room they are directed too, but she smiles reassuringly, sways to the pulsing beat and leads him down the hallway. They are greeted disconcertingly by darkness, flashes of neon necklaces, glaring white teeth and glowing eyeballs. She grabs his other hand; a persuasive smile tugs at her mouth as the music beckons them to dance. She backs up to him; he draws her in, hands possessively perched on her waist and she rubs against him as she moves her body lower. She twists in her crouch to face him. The excitement her closeness encourages is obvious; his confidence permits him to avoid the normal embarrassment most boys display. She exhales warm air and her body rises slowly in constant contact with his as his hands slide over her shoulders, down her arms and settle back on her swaying hips. Her green melts his gold, he inhales haltingly and she smiles at the affect she has on him. He pulls her body into his; space is his enemy and he wills her hips to continue moving as his hand slips slightly lower. Her eyes flash to his in curiosity; he's always kept a harsh hold on his attraction to her. He smiles a bit devilishly and she allows her head to rest on his chest as the motion of the music drives them slightly mad. He can feel her heart beating rapidly and he is content in the knowledge that he is the cause of that reaction.

All too soon, the music is lowered and the party games are set to begin. One group wanders off to play Spin-the-Bottle, the other moves to the couches to play Seven Minutes in Heaven. He pulls her to the cushions, sitting so closely. A number is drawn, and he holds his breath as a blond shapely girl walks to the coat closet. She waits fingers crossed that his name won't be called to spend time in the dark with the blonde. A lanky boy fist pumps at his luck and he almost runs to the closet. The timer is set and the group makes bets as to how long the couple will last. A minute ticks by and the door is thrown open the blonde stomping off as the boy emerges with a bright red handprint branded on his cheek. Another number is called and another boy marches off to the makeshift heaven. Thirty seconds in, a loud yelp signals the end as the boy limps to his seat and the girl runs for the restroom. The cycle repeats and each time he holds his breath as she crosses her fingers listening for their turns.

Finally, her number is called and she reluctantly leaves the solace of his arm, the warmth of his thigh next to hers. She takes a deep breath as she closes the door and the darkness surrounds her. Moments feel like hours as she waits for her partner to enter. She faces away from the door, playing by the rules. Almost soundlessly the door opens and she feels a presence buzzing nearby. Arms reach through the space, grasping her shoulders to turn her in the right direction. Her body recognizes the touch before her brain is able to register that the steady breathing belongs to him. An unknown tension releases its hold on her and she reaches out for him placing her hand on his chest. His heart reverberates in the small space filling it. She can't see his smile, but she senses his calm and she moves nearer, the electricity that builds between them guiding her. His hand fumbles slightly for hers, but the grip that pulls her is sure and strong. He places his hand on the small of her back steadying her. Her breath comes quickly and his matches hers inhale for inhale, exhale for exhale. The millimeters of space that exist between their bodies spark wickedly demanding that toes touch toes, thighs press against thigh, hips meet hips, chests rise and fall joined. The joy of her breath caresses his cheek as she moves to whisper her delight that he was chosen in his ear. Their noses glance off of each other as he moves to respond to her whisper with his own happiness. Desire rolls off of them in clouds that permeate the tiny space. His open lips hover along her jaw, his breath spreads his warmth and she shutters with anticipation. Her hand drops from his and glides up his arm to tangle in golden curls; her satisfaction at finally knowing that gold feels like spun silk radiates an eagerness to touch him further. A hunger for the other growls in impatience; his lips yet to caress her skin; her fingers twisted tightly in his hair yet to explore beyond his curls. Her green eyes slowly open to drown in his gold. His parted lips are almost upon hers. Their frenzied breathing resounds in his ears; he can hear the want in her exhalation. She leans in eliminating all that separates them, but a few seconds until their lips are finally joined.

Bam! The door is thrown open and enthusiastic shouts declaring them the winners interrupt and divide the two. He groans and stumbles back with the invading brightness; she disentangles her fingers from his soft golden curls whimpering softly. Disappointment dissolves desire. The heaviness settles back on his shoulders and a blush creeps across her cheeks cursing the end to the moment of heaven they almost shared.


	7. Chapter 7: Anything for You

**Hi all!**

**Happy 2014! I hope everyone had a fantastic holiday. Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited and followed this story.  
**

**I'm trying to strike a balance with how much I communicate in my author's notes. I know several FF author's who have amazing connections to their readers, and I wonder it if it has to do with how much they share of themselves. What do you all think? **

**As always, I hope that you enjoy this chapter. Please share your thoughts with me. I don't really know how many readers feel about this story and I really wish that more of you would share your comments, feelings, thoughts, hates, loves with me. Even if it is just telling me a line that you loved or hated.**

The crunch of the well-traveled snowy path under their feet is barely audible over the puffed whiteness of their exerted breathing. The trail is steep, icy, and they both struggle gracelessly to remain on their feet. Her rosy cheeks and nose speak of the dropping temperature, but her bright green eyes are animated with anticipation. Snow flakes of the purest white drift slowly around her glittering as they land on her navy pea coat. They leave no imprint melting almost immediately. His body casts an aura of warmth that envelops her. As the pair trudges on, they come to a clearing in the trees where a herd of spotted deer is feeding on a patch of grass. They quietly pause, not wishing to disturb the scene before them. He marvels at how she's able to stand there without shivering. His own body betrays him trembling, teeth chattering. A sudden gust of wind whips her red hair into a sun-storm halo and he clasps her fuzzy mitten clad hand. His is left bare to the elements, not because he is too manly for gloves; he wants to feel her radiating warmth creep up his arms to settle over his shoulders. He shifts his grip and his cold-tinged fingers discover the exposed space where her jacket should meet her mittens. She takes in a quick surprise-laden breath. It's pleasant the way his fingers melt into her heated flesh-a reminder of how his being burrows into hers spreading his calm. His smile, a welcome constant, makes her heart stutter and her breathing echoes its beats.  
"We'll be there in just a few minutes." Concern briefly flashes across his face. He wonders if she is strong enough for their annual excursion to the frozen forest pond. His worry feeds a feeling of distance between them, a fracture in their bond.  
"I'm okay," she whispers softly not wanting to disturb the peace that she feels at his presence. She knows that he's worried about bringing her out, exposing her to the cold, risking her embattled body to fix that something between them that he thinks is broken. If he only believed her assurances that he couldn't control this—he is not responsible for the harm. He sees himself as her betrayer; the one who failed to protect her physically and emotionally. But, he is her savior: he's the reason she fought to survive her father; he is her strength; her courage. He is the reason she will survive this, too.  
As they near their destination he misinterprets her further. He thinks that she seems noticeably hesitant. He silently accuses her of refusing to see beneath his façade of unflappability to uncover his aim in bringing her here. He worries he is stupid to force the past on her as a chance to rekindle their—he can't put what they share into words that an outsider would be able to mold into anything extra-ordinary: laughter, pausing glances, soft caresses, almost kisses, charged fingertips sliding over bare arms leaving goose bumps in their wake, bodies that connect like destined puzzle pieces—but to him it's everything. It's something that he would risk almost anything to preserve.

* * *

She lays blanketed in white; the stale smell of antiseptic, caustic chemistry, and death permeating their final minutes together. She manages to allow a smile to break through the paralyzing fear that she can't deny any longer. He hides a tremor in his lips that has been holding back a sob since she told him the diagnosis—brain tumor, possibly malignant—a few days earlier.  
"But you're only 16." He tries to turn the whimper of shock into something he knows she needs—determination, but fails miserably. He sees this as another failure in his ability to keep her safe. It's irrational he knows, yet he's certain that there must have been something that he could have done to protect her, to shield her from this awful demon that has invaded her body.  
A shimmering tear trails down her cheek. She had wanted to spare him the gloomy corridors, the expressionless doctors, the absence of hope. He insisted that he be there before, during and after. Secretly, she hoped that he would ignore her pleas. She needed his calm smile even if it was forced. His outstretched finger catches the tear, and he considers it for a moment wishing that he could rewind time so that it was never necessary. He's unaware that his cheeks have become overrun with his own grief and fear. Each tear, captured by her hands sweetly cupping his face, is not evidence of weakness; it is proof of his devotion. She wishes she could…her thoughts stop there…there is nothing that she can do. He must feel this just as she must endure whatever comes next.  
The nurse comes to prep her for surgery; her beautiful red tresses woven with gold were to be the first sacrifice, but the need for a new PET scan provides, maybe, a last minute reprieve. He hopes that losing her hair will be one thing that she won't have to suffer. It's not so very important to him, but would be the first clue to others of a battle that she didn't want to share with anyone other than him. He protects this part of her just as he has safeguarded everything to do with her from the time that they were six. The nurse asks her a question, one that anxiety keeps her from answering. She looks to him—relies on him to steady her; her green eyes boring into him searching for his calm unwavering smile and he pushes down every emotion, every fear to give it to her. A gust of relief escapes her as she feels his tranquil power surge through her, pacifying her. She looks to the nurse, giving her answer in a clear, sure voice. The nurse considers her words and then signals to the aide that it's time. She grasps his hand smiling weakly. He leans in, breathing in her essence for safekeeping. He cannot risk her disappearing again. She whispers comfort into his ear, brushes her lips along his cheek and is wheeled away.

It ticks away, slipping from his hands—time, once his friend now hijacks his peace of mind. He grabs handfuls of his golden hair pulling, wishing to create a pain in him equal to what she must suffer. There has been no news; her mother sits staring in his direction and he is weighted down by the enormity of her fears coupling with his own. Five hours they wait, no words passing from their lips. The waiting room isn't warm or comfortable; he pulls his jacket close—his body is shaking. A volunteer places a hand on his shoulder interrupting his silent prayers offering hot chocolate or a sympathetic ear. He can't respond the way he knows he should. He shakes his head, closes his unblinking eyes and when he reopens them they are swimming with panic as he takes in the surgeon's tired, screaming gait. Her mother doesn't rise; she shakes her head and motions to him to receive the surgeon's update. He breathes deeply to slow the roaring in his head so that he can hear the words that might bring him too his knees.  
In hushed tones, the surgeon recaps the surgery remarking on the patient's strong will and surviving spirit. He smiles inwardly, never doubting that his girl would be a fighter.

His hands are clammy with anticipation as he is led down a darkened corridor two hours later. He steals his emotions uncertain what he will be greeted with when he finally enters her room. The beeping of heart monitors and whirring machinery breaches his calm momentarily, but he must be in control for her sake. The nurse pauses outside the door, smiles reassuringly and waves him in. He doesn't budge. His feet are cemented to the floor shouting to go no further; he overrides all but hope and moves forward with the determination he denied her earlier. He inhales slowly, deeply through his nose, raising his eyes, scanning the room. His gaze is drawn to the bed. Almost her entire being has been swallowed by the sterile room. She is, however, the centerpiece, illuminated, glowing, her red hair splayed out on the pillow. He looses the breath he has been holding tightly in his chest. The sigh calls her attention to him. Her green locks onto his gold with an unrelenting recognition of who he is to her. His smile breaks the uncertainly that has clouded his thoughts, allowing threads of optimism to weave through him. He hopes that she can see this in the extreme upturn of his lips and will absorb it as she has his calm for so many years.  
The slap of his boots on the tile as he approaches her bed is a welcoming sound to her ears. The other noises of the room have disturbed her, setting off waves of annoyance. Now, her focus is pried from the sounds of illness and is bent toward the hum of his body as it moves through the space separating them. And finally, he is there.  
"Can I touch you?" The idea that she is fragile, breakable is disgusting to her, but she cannot be angry at him for being wary. She reaches out her hand; her movements are exhausted, their normal fluidity disguised by pain and medication.  
"Please…I've waited all day for you." The urgent yearning for his fingers to grace hers has awakened an impatience for the wires and tubes and bars that inhibit him from moving closer. She tries to shift her position; a shooting stab penetrates the drug-induced haze—her cry wounds him. He doesn't hesitate placing his hands tenderly on her cheeks to capture the tears that slide as she did for him before.  
"Hush. Hush, Baby. Look at me." He tosses his concern aside knowing what she needs. With all emotion possible, he smiles. "Give the pain to me. Please." He pleads softly his finger reaching to press the button on the pain pump. Her cheek rests in his strong hands as she sighs; her eyes fluttering once as she gives into his request.  
"Is it snowing yet? I can feel the frozen air. Will you take me to the pond, please?" An audible beep signals that the medication is being delivered to soothe the ragged hold the pain has on her.  
He leans in, lips to her ear, "Soon, Baby. Soon. Hush…hush…."  
The relief is almost instantaneous and a sweet smile floods her face—he has saved her again.

It has been several months since the surgery. She endures radiation to ensure that the malicious cells have been eradicated. At first, his presence is a constant. Her mother gives up on sending him home at night. He sneaks back to keep his watchful eye on her. But the sleepless nights are tearing at the tenuous hold he has on rational thought. With the rise and fall of her chest, he berates himself; thoughts of his unending failure seep in and drive him from her side.

Another two months creep by. He has returned, but their separation has left an unhealed wound inflicting them both. Now, their every encounter is fraught with the history of the time they spent apart. It settles around them, a foggy shroud that each must overcome to allow the space between them to dissipate. She whispers prayers of forgiveness hoping that he will allow the words to smother the unkind thoughts he hacks at himself. In an effort to pull him back to her—to burn off the fog of uncertainty, she reminds him of his bedside promise to take her the pond they visit yearly for ice skating and hot cocoa.  
"Soon." His flat reply signal his reluctance. "Soon, Baby."

* * *

As they reach the frost-kissed pond, surrounded by tree branches bending into welcoming arches replete with twinkling pogonip, they pause again to take in the scene. They are close to each other—closer than they've been in a long time, mere inches separate them. They both shiver, but not from the cold. The clouds of her warm breath that swirl around him awaken him. He imagines the sensation of her touch traveling down his body igniting a slow burn that yearns to rage deep within, but he squelches the feelings. They can't possibly be returned, can they? He leads them to a makeshift bench, a fallen tree—a statue in repose—that serves as another reminder of what they are. Carved into the seat are their initials. They are not surrounded by a heart, but are instead encircled by an infinity symbol. She runs her fingers over the weathered wood memorial, a loving caress. She finally looks into his eyes; his emotions always so carefully veiled are laid bare for her. She places her still mittened hand on his cheek and gazes beyond the sorrow and remorse looking for a recollection of what he knows she feels for him. Her scent of apples and citrus swarms his brain. His breathing quickens and his golden eyes are lighter. Two steps and her feet find rest between his. Her knees press into the space just below his knees. His arm drags down her back and clutches her hips to him. The rise and fall of his chest is in tandem with hers; her heartbeat resounds within his ears. She looks up, her hands warming his cheeks. He lowers his forehead to hers.  
"Thank you." She murmurs so close to his lips. "Thank you." The arm hanging emotionlessly at his side wraps around her shoulders.  
He sighs deeply, pulling her into him. "Anything for you." His lips press hers softly with all of the emotion that has been restrained for so long breaking through and she knows, as she as always known, that his words are true.

*******Where to go next?**

**Thanks for reading,**

** Still Lost...**


	8. Chapter 8: That It's Okay

**Hi Everybody! I hope you've had a fantastic day!**

**Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story. You may not realize it, but your following, favoriting and reviewing means the world to me. I really love reading the reviews that I receive, but each one helps me to become a better writer. So thank you for that!**

**So, I know that his chapter is pretty short. I've had part of it written for several days now, and tonight when I sat down to add to it, it just felt done. I love the little snippets of the character's time together. It may not do much for the plot of the story, but it does help me to better understand the characters. I hope you enjoy it.**

The back of the school is thankfully deserted at lunch today. Normally, couples stash themselves along the building to get in a bit of make-out time during the day, but today is frigidly cold and only one couple braves the temperature because their need to be together is more desperate than the cold. Remnants of last nights frozen snowfall are whipped up by the wind sending swirling mini tornadoes of sparkling jagged spears into the air. The sun, intense in its brightness, is held hostage by the bitter zero degree-day. He presses his body into her with an intense urgency. He needs to protect her from the elements, but even more he can't deny his want, his desire to meld his body to hers, to feel as much as two fully clothed people can before the bell rings. Her body pushes back buffered by the building. Their lips, swollen and red are parted for the moment; both are breathing hard and need to slow the heartbeats that seem to reverberate off the bricks. She tilts her head back and he accepts the invitation to caress the silky, ivory of her neck. His lips hover barely touching teasing her into a frenzy. Her face is tingling with expectation. He breathes out slowly and the heat of his breath is delicious against her frozen skin sending a shiver down her spine.

"Cold?" He suggests, but she only answers in a low moan. He smiles against her flesh loving that he has such an affect on her. She's tired of waiting to catch her breath and greedily grips his jaw and pulls him back to her. Her soft, wet lips meet his and immediately their mouths are moving with that same fierce need to fill all of their remaining time connected. He takes her bottom lip between his, sucking, caressing the smooth surface with his tongue, grazing his teeth as he pulls back. His arms shift pulling her even closer, his bare hand slips under her shirt and grasps at her tender hip; the other hand snakes up her back, palms the based of her head deepening the kiss. She sucks in breath and breaks the kiss, creating space without moving her body. He looks at her, a question on his lips and then a wave of recognition hits him.

"I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean…I wasn't think…, he stutters trying to get the apology out. His hand moves from her head to rest tentatively between her shoulder blades.

She places a startlingly cold finger to his lips. "Shhh… I know. I just kind of forget that it's…". She pauses, green eyes cast downward. She's embarrassed and wants to crawl inside of herself. "It's okay. Don't worry." Her soft voice tries to be reassuring, but it isn't because she doesn't believe everything's okay.

"Come here." He entreats soothingly to smother the distance that has crept in. Her body is still pressed up against his. He can still feel the crushing desire that rolls over him with each breath, but now is not the time.

She doesn't resist; she wants the comfort that only he can give and she wants to feel the honesty of her words, that it is okay. His hand moves from her shoulders and the back of his fingers drag along her cheek. She shivers again under his electrifying touch that sparks the memory of their first kiss and every other kiss afterward. The simplicity of it all increases the longing to reconnect and she fists her fingers in his sweater and again pulls him to her. Her lips aren't hesitant and she doesn't wait for him to break through the astonishment that her mouth is on his and she isn't going to wait for permission. Her tongue lightly licks his upper lip and finally he catches on and allows her in. She melts into his arms, and he holds her with all of his strength, forcing the hope that he never has to let go warm them.

**Two quick things:**

**1. I'm thinking about changing the title of the story and I would love to hear what suggestions you have for a new title.**

**2. I'm curious about what you guys think about the point of view I've written in. Is it confusing to have just he and she instead of characters names? **

**I hope that you'll let me know what you think. Your reviews are like Mega-Stuffed Oreos to me (and I love Mega-Stuffed Oreos).**

*******Still lost...**


	9. Chapter 9: The Battle Won

**Hi! I've missed you guys! Work and two crazy young children make it hard to find time to write, but I wanted to make sure that I posted a chapter be for the week was finished. I hope that enjoy reading it.**

**As always, thank you so much to you all for favoriting and following of this story. And more readers have started reviewing that that fills me with motivation... Thank you for taking the time to let me know what you think-it really does matter! I'm excited to know what you like, love or hate about this chapter. Please review and let me know!**

**For now...**

She's stopped wearing the scarves and the beanie to hide what was once something she was ashamed of. Now, instead, she thinks of her head, angry purple scar, bare scalp as a sign of her triumph. Today, is her last radiation treatment. The last day her worn out body will be subjected to the waves of toxicity designed to claim the breaths of the straggling cancer cells, and as almost an after-thought: her hair; the bright luster of her once ivory skin; her strong muscular limbs cultivated by years of distance running; and the shimmer of her emerald green eyes. The nurses in the cancer center wait by the door, hoping to say their final farewell, tears streaking their faces in happiness as another patient exits victorious. And of course, he is there, holding her hand, calmly tracing circles on her palm.

"Thank you for everything." Her voice is quiet, sure and filled with all of the emotion of a yearlong battle finally won. Embrace after embrace bolsters her. Time will tell if she'll have to return, but for now she is ready to live again.

* * *

Her body trembles, wracked with convulsions. He presses a cool towel to her face mopping the sweat as she settles into his lap. He has held her like this before, many times as the pain washes over her, steals from her. Both had hoped that the nausea and head-bursting ache brought on by her treatments would elude her this last time. But the hold the poison has on her frail body is stronger than her resolve to not succumb to it effects. He presses comforting kisses to her heated flesh wishing that he could remove her suffering—take it upon himself to save her the agony. Sitting there listening for a sign that the worst has passed, her head lolls against his shoulder and after her breathing slows, he is relieved that she has finally found sleep. He leans back into the cool porcelain of the bathtub unhurried to move her, loathe to wrest her from the slumber she so desperately needs. As her body relaxes into him, a sweet sigh escapes her and he wishes her contentment would wrap them for eternity. His body aches sitting on the hard tile, but he's able to dismiss it to the part of his mind he has designated for things that don't matter. She matters. The intensity of their connection matters. The way she makes him feel matters. His head droops, cheek resting on the warm, smooth surface of her head. Her breathing the lulls him into a sense of calm and he drifts off. They sleep huddled together gathering strength from the nearness.

* * *

The din in the hallways has reached an eardrum busting fervor. It is the Friday before spring break and students bounce into the building, bubbling over with enthusiasm. He walks in the door; she is right there next to him encased in the protective shroud of his strong arms. She fought coming to school today….

"What does it matter if I miss this day? It's only one day…." She allows her voice to trail off not wishing to betray her secret even to him. Fear hovers threatening to overwhelm her battered self-esteem—she's shaved her head clean unable to deal with the remaining tufts of scraggly hair untouched by the surgery or radiation—the boldness she felt at finally finishing her treatment has dissipated.

"No one will notice," her mother tries to soothe, "and if they do, they'll be too shy to say anything." Her mother lives in a dreamland; one where all abide by the Golden Rule and people think before they allow words to tumble from their mouths. She is unconvinced, but finds some determination to leave the house without a scarf, or hat, or beanie. Regretting her decision upon arriving at school, she burrows into his shoulder deeper hoping that her mother will be right, just this once. As if reading her thoughts, he distracts her with a sweet kiss right above her ear, whispering something only she can hear. She playfully hip bumps him and he smiles down at her savoring the momentary lightness of her spirit. Her head tips up and she kisses him gently, earnestly, but briefly not wanting to draw attention any sooner than necessary. He forces her green gaze to lock with his gold as they head to their separate first period classes silently conveying his confidence in her strength. His smile, the last thing she sees as he turns toward his room, exudes calm and she wraps herself in it, encouraged.

* * *

Exhaustion clouds her thoughts and she mistakes her shoulder partner's answer for a veiled insult. Her eyes blaze indignantly. She has been made to endure question after question about her scar, her bare scalp, her absent always-there-head-covering. She snaps and lobs an insult of her own at the innocent classmate. The girl's jaw drops, the misunderstanding now a tense altercation.

"Say it again to my face." The girl's growl draws a small gathering that catches the teacher's ears. Heavy footsteps announce the instructor's presence and both girls focus back on analyzing the extended metaphor in Sylvia Plath's "Mirror". Neither has forgotten the nastily flung words, but for now they work in harmony avoiding the other's disgruntled glares. The clock moves minutely—tick-tock-tick-tock matching the rapid beating of her startled heart. She's never reacted so strongly; her partner's words not really abrasive enough to deserve her harsh comeback. It's just that the inquisitive stares and under breath comments have made the morning so long. A dull throb echoes in her head warring with the pounding in her chest. She's dizzy and needs air. Her arm robotically sweeps her belongings into her backpack, and she darts for the door throwing an excuse over her shoulder to the teacher.

The walls are closing in around her. Focusing, on the blurred green of the far exit sign, she trips toward the sunlight knowing that she will find some relief in the open expanse of the sky. The click of the door behind her allows her to release the breath caught in her throat. She crumples to the ground unable to hold herself up any longer. The rising and falling of her chest begins to slow to an almost normal rate although the thrumming in her head becomes more intense. In the fog of her mind she hears the lunch dismissal bell. A buzzing in her back pocket jars her and she reaches for her phone.

_Are you okay_? _Where are you? _She pictures a look of deep concern marring his beautiful features.

_In front._ _Take me home, please._ He can hear the tremor in the voice of her text.

The walk through the hallway to their shared locker is strange. He's hyperaware always; it's part of him, but this is more than just twitters of ordinary hallway gossip. Something happened. He picks up his pace, opens the locker automatically, and grabs their jackets slamming the door without pause. His body hums with the anxiety of separation as he struggles to keep from appearing conspicuous making his way to the office. Rounding the corner, he almost collides with a wall of students. He hears mumblings, "What a bitch!" "Does she want us to feel sorry for her?" "Being "supposedly" sick doesn't mean that you can treat people like shit!" that he cannot connect to her, but he senses that they are very much about her. Fists balled, he pushes his way through the crowd opening the office door with trembling hands and curtly explains that she's sick—he needs to take her home. The stress rolling off of him is the only proof the attendance clerk requires having been made aware of her illness early on. Placing an off-campus pass in his hand; he's out the door before the clerk's well-wishes have even left her lips.

The sunlight boors into his wide, searching eyes causing globes of light to interfere with his near desperate need to find her. He shades his face; his vision sharpens pinpointing the shape of her that he knows so well. Her face is hidden in her arms, dejection evident in her sagging shoulders. He cannot move to her fast enough, and then he's there—his arms enclose her small frame protectively. She twists into him inhaling the calming scent of him. A sob breaks the silence; his neck is wet with her tears. He gathers her up in his arms carrying her to his car questions swarming his brain, but he knows that it's not time to ask. Gently, he deposits her shuttering form in the passenger seat and kisses her head softly. She leans into him, gripping his shirt burying her face in his powerful chest. He holds his hand centimeters from her head hesitating to touch her, but he can't deny her any comfort he can provide and he tenderly caresses her smooth skin.

Soon, the sobs subside and she turns to face him. He lowers his face to hers noses brushing, lips hovering close. She moves in to kiss him taking his upper lip between hers, pausing to drink him in. His hands run over her cheeks and he clutches her to him returning the kiss. She tastes of salt and sweet. He closes his eyes and breathes her in deeply, releasing her lips momentarily to whisper against them and then she pulls him into her pressing her lips to his with all of the strength she is capable of. A soft whimper escapes her. He deepens the kiss, parting her lips with a soft sweep of his tongue. She welcomingly accepts him in allowing him to dominate. Her hands tangle in his golden curls and she moans demurely. His body curves around hers less protectively, more an act of possession. He's overcome by the emotion of her, the tension released just by being in her presence and a growing urgency that surges through him. She tugs on his hair roughly trying to provoke a more heated response from him. She wants the feel of him to erase the horrors of her day. He obliges and the sound of his husky groan pleases her ears. He can make her forget.

Her smile rests on his lips. "Take me home, please…."

**So what do you think?**

**Love...**

*****Still Lost...**


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